


Frozen Dances Melt No Hearts

by PurplePatchwork



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bonding, First Meetings, M/M, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePatchwork/pseuds/PurplePatchwork
Summary: Alfred has one dream, and one dream only: to become as great as his idol Ivan Braginsky. This story contains a lot of willpower, a chance meeting, and a city where dreams do come true.Happy birthday, DD.





	Frozen Dances Melt No Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarlightOnInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/gifts).



Ever since the very first time he had seen Viktor Nikiforov dance on the ice, Ivan had known he wanted to be a figure skater. Those elegant movements, lean muscles that effortlessly propelled him into the air as if he were light as a feather, the sound of skates carving curls and lines into the glistening frozen theatre on which he performed his art. It was like love at first sight, the way in which Viktor managed to draw Ivan to his skating. It was as if skating itself was an act of love, a manner to put your inner self on full display, made vulnerable through precarious technique and practice.

Ivan started learning the trade directly after his first introduction. He worked harder on this than he ever had on anything else, bound to make himself as great as Viktor, as talented, as loved and praised. He wanted to one day be able to stand upon the stage next to him, without fear, knowing he had every right to be there.

As the years went by and Ivan grew slightly older, he discovered that not just the ice itself was love. As young boys do, he started to notice those around him, took interest in one specific person. He was too shy to approach them, however, and his love went unnoticed. It was around that time that it happened; the video that would change not just the course of his life, but of many others.

Ivan had been working on his jumps when several of his fellow students entered the rink, tittering and giggling and appearing very excited over something or other.

“Look, he’s doing it! He’s actually doing it!”

“Is it the same?”

“Yes, look! It’s almost an exact copy of Nikiforov’s routine!”

Ivan paused in his warm-up, curiosity piqued at the mention of his most beloved idol. He quickly zigzagged over, practice immediately abandoned. Someone was holding up their phone, showing a video of a person skating Viktor’s routine; after a moment Ivan recognised him as Yuri Katsuki, one of last year’s competitors.

“It’s beautiful!”

“Wow, if anyone were to skate for me like that…”

Ivan’s heart skipped a beat. That was it! That was the solution to his problem! He would simply skate this routine for his crush, and then they would _have_ to notice him! Silently he thanked Katsuki for offering him the answer, not realising that Yuri was doing something similar with his own performance.

Ivan practiced harder than ever that month. He couldn’t perform all the jumps that were in the routine, and it would take him another couple of years before he would, but it was the spirit that counted in this situation, not the technique. As long as he poured his heart into it, he was certain it would have the desired effect.

One week after the infamous video emerged on the web, Ivan succeeded in separating his crush from the group.

“What is it, Ivan?” they asked him, completely unaware of the fact that they were all alone, that Ivan was dressed up extra nicely for the occasion.

Ivan swallowed; his hands were sweaty. “I…I have been wanting to show you something,” he finally managed to bring out, cheeks heating when he managed to mangle that single sentence. Ivan had never been that good with words, hence the reason he thought his performance would do so much better at bringing the message across.

“Oh?” His crush sat down, looking expectant. “Okay, sure. I got time. What is it you want to show me?”

Ivan breathed in deeply as he turned on his phone and attached it to a speaker. Familiar tunes quickly came pouring out, echoing dimly in the empty spaces of the stadium. Ivan pushed back, took another few breaths to calm himself, and began.

While initially nervous as all hell, the boy quickly lost himself in the act. Thoughts about messing up vanished behind the want to impress his crush, to pour his heart out in every movement. _Notice me!_ his mind seemed to whisper, insistently. _Please realise that I like you!_

It didn’t go as flawlessly as Yuri’s performance of the same routine, even with the level downgraded. Ivan had to touch down twice, and over-rotated one of the jumps he did keep. Still, the boy didn’t let the flaws distract him from his ultimate goal, sitting there in the Kiss and Cry, waiting, looking on.

Ivan closed his eyes as he twirled into his final pose, panting. He waited for a moment, then jolted when he heard laughter.

“Oh my God, this is too good!”

Eyes shot open and snapped to the side, widening when they fell upon a phone pointed directly at his own now trembling form.

“I will definitely show this to my friends when I get back home, they are gonna love it!”

Ivan was filled with a sudden burning uncertainty. He couldn’t place the tone of their voice—was it awe, amusement, mockery? Were they impressed by his actions, or something else entirely?

“Wait!” Ivan managed to croak when he watched them rise. An eyebrow was quirked, adding fuel to the growing fire in his gut, churning and coiling. “What did you…think?”

Another giggle, quick and high. “I think it’s cute you think you can be as good as Viktor or Yuri Katsuki. I mean, look at you!”

Ivan’s body snapped taut under that condescending gaze, humiliation rising to his cheeks and ears. _No._ This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“You can’t even do quads yet! You should wait until you’re older before you try imitating the real skaters, Ivan.” It was said in an almost kind tone, as if the advice was truly heartfelt. Yet each word stung him like a wasp.

“I only…” Ivan said, starting to tremble. He hated this. Words hadn’t helped him make the connection he so desired, and now it turned out his skating wasn’t any better. He wasn’t anywhere near the level of skill of his one idol, and what he considered as an art only served to be laughed at by others.

“I only—!“

But they had already left. Ivan stood there on the ice, watching it dance and sway beneath him, hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His hands were balled to tight fists.

He was going to get better. He _was_ going to get better. He was going to focus solely on his dream from now on, and he would ignore any distractions that came into play.

He didn’t need them, he didn’t need any of them; the ice would be his only true love.

He would show them!

* * *

It was fifteen years after the video had come out, after Yuri Plisetsky had made his record-shattering debut, fifteen years after a young boy had begun to train as if his life depended on it. And fifteen years later, all that training had paid off.

The name Ivan Braginsky was like a distinguished brand; wherever it was uttered, heads turned, eyes widened, conversations stopped short and switched topics. While his debut at the age of fifteen hadn’t broken any records, his technical expertise and elegant movements had quickly marked his potential. In the next couple of years he managed to rise from a considerably good skater to the number one figure skater in the world. After the era of Viktor Nikiforov and then the golden years of Yuri Plisetsky, Ivan Braginsky was now the new reason the people of Russia turned on their television when the season rolled around, or bought tickets to go see his performances live.

Ivan Braginsky’s trademark was the grace with which he handled his robust body combined with the strength of his movements, making him resemble a statue come to life. Watching him brought tears to your eyes.

His off-stage persona was shrouded in mystery. Ivan rarely gave interviews, and when he did his answers were sober and short, casting questions back at the journalist without hinting at his plans for the future. Ivan was an enigma wrapped in a conundrum, leaving his fans only to guess at what truly went on inside his mind as he created a new routine of pure exquisiteness. It was exactly that mystery that only increased his fame, made him popular with the ladies (and equally as many gents), that exact mystery that kept people interested. What would he bring this time, which surprise would the audience face? Would he ever drop the façade and reveal his true self, would there ever be anyone to steal him away from the spotlight?

Nobody knew that Ivan lived alone in a small apartment in St. Petersburg. Nobody knew that he had a big fluffy cat, that he loved the sound of the sea in the morning, that he drank his tea with too much sugar. Nobody was allowed to know, for Ivan knew to keep his private life and his professional one completely separated. On the ice he was loved, on the ice he loved back, on the ice he would dance and feel and touch whatever heart would let itself be touched. Off the ice, he’d rather be left alone. Off the ice, he couldn’t keep up the façade of having an easy and lovable personality, nor did he feel the desire to do so. Off the ice he was grumpy whenever he felt like being grumpy, he read the news in the daily newspaper and called his sisters from time to time. He liked it that way. Let the people love his performances, and let them leave his true self alone. It was dangerous to interweave the two.

Ivan was twenty-five years old now, and still he had yet to topple over his peak. Surely he wasn’t the only talented skater around nowadays, but he was truly one-of-a-kind. He had enough golden medals to prove it. And there were enough people who thought the same thing.

* * *

The 9.05 from Brussels Airport to Pulkovo, St. Petersburg was flying high in the clear skies on a sunny Friday morning. Its passengers were mostly keeping to themselves; sipping hot coffee, leafing through the booklet with available tax-free purchases, listening to some music through headphones or earplugs, talking in subdued murmurs. The serenity was disturbed when out of the blue, someone’s phone began ringing. It went over two, three times before its owner took the call, instantly starting to converse in a loud and easy English.

“Yo Mattie, good morning to you too!”

Several heads turned as rambunctious laughter escaped the man. He was tanned and blond, long legs clad in jeans swaying happily to and fro as he continued the call without a care in the world.

“Well, right now I’m on my way there…yes way, I told you I was gonna do it, so now I’m doing it. Did you really think that when I said I was going to St. Petersburg I didn’t mean it? Matt, you’re hurting me here, bro.”

High heels rapidly clicked as a stewardess hurried over. “Sir?” she asked, lowering her voice and leaning in. The man held a hand to his phone and looked up at her, frighteningly blue eyes shiny and expectant. “We would like to ask you not to call on your phone while we’re in the air. We will be landing soon, you see.” She pointed at a sign that clearly showed a phone with a red line through it, prohibiting the use of cellular devices.

“Oh, but this won’t take long!” the man told her, beaming confidence. He took away his hand. “Sorry Matt, just got interrupted by a stewardess.”

 _“Then turn off your phone_!”

“Sir…”

“No no no, you wanted to nag, so go ahead and nag!”

“Sir, please—“

_“Alfred, I swear to God, if you cause trouble while you’re in Europe—“_

“I won’t, I won’t! You know me, I’m an angel!”

Another steward had come to aide his colleague. “Sir, we are about to start landing procedures and we _insist_ you turn off your phone.”

“Just another second, I’m almost done!”

_“Alfred!”_

“Mattie!” Alfred chirruped back, right before a small scuffle ensued.

Half an hour later, Alfred was at the airport, on the phone again, this time having taken on a slightly more surly tone.

 _“Alfred please…you’re already doing something stupid by going to St. Petersburg, don’t make this worse on yourself._ ”

“I was just calling, geesh. They didn’t _have_ to threaten to throw me off the plane. As if a plane actually ever crash-landed just because someone was on the phone. I _do_ have flight modus activated, you know.”

He could hear Matthew sigh, and had a pretty good idea of what the other was thinking. “Anyway,” Alfred said, straightening up, slinging his back over a shoulder. “I’m here now, so there’s no turning back. Wish me luck?”

After a moment’s pause, Matthew begrudgingly did as told. One simply couldn’t stay mad at Alfred, and he made great use of that feat.

_“I really hope you’re onto something, otherwise this is a huge waste of time and money.”_

Alfred smiled. “I hope so too. I’ll call you when I got news. Bye, and uh…say sorry to Gilbert.”

_“YOU DIDN’T TELL YOUR COACH YOU ARE—“_

Alfred shut off his phone before he could hear the rest of Matthew’s fury. He knew fully well what he was doing, and he wasn’t going to let anything lead him astray. When Alfred had a certain goal in mind, he always achieved it. Somehow.

The next two hours or so, Alfred could be found commuting by metro and bus, asking whoever he encountered for directions by holding out the little paper on which he’d written down the address,  asking for help again when he utterly failed to decipher the Cyrillic, all the while dragging his bag around with him. It certainly wasn’t an easy trip to make, seeing as he’d never been to the city before, but somehow he managed to end up in the right place after all. Alfred double-checked the address to his little note before crumbling the little paper into a ball and stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket.

The apartment building he was currently standing before could be found by one of the city’s many coastlines, a sight which surprised Alfred. When he thought about Russia, the ocean wasn’t one of the first things to come to mind. Zelenogorsk was located on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, or so Alfred had read in a brochure somewhere. Zelenogorsk was also the hometown (home suburb?) of a certain someone he was very eager to meet.

Alfred breathed in deeply a couple of times to subdue his sudden nerves. It _had_ been a rather impulsive decision to come over all of a sudden, but then again, Alfred thrived on those kind of abrupt resolves. They were what had gotten him into the sport he now lived for, they were the start of most of his friendships, and they had helped his brother find true love. In fact, they all should be thankful that Alfred was more of an act-first-think-later kind of guy! With that in mind, Alfred reached out and rang the bell. His heartbeat was still accelerating and he had sweaty palms despite the breezy weather, but there was no going back now.

After some staticky noises, a deep and rumbling voice could be heard, speaking in a foreign tongue. _His_ voice.

Alfred’s breath caught, and for a moment he felt very lightheaded. As if he was only realising just now what he was doing, where he was, and who was speaking to him.

“ _Hello_?”

The second greeting woke the boy from his trance, and he leant forward, wetting his lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Yeah, hi!” he croaked, throat suddenly dry. “This is Ivan Braginsky speaking, right?”

“Who are you?” the same voice asked, easily switching on his inner translator. “I do not receive journalists or fans in my home…how do you even know where I live?”

Alfred grinned despite his nerves. “You probably don’t know me yet, but my name’s Alfred, Alfred F. Jones. I skated in the Junior branch for the United States ‘til last year. In fact, this year’ll be the first time I’m playing in the big league! And your address was on your official homepage.”

Ivan grumbled something in Russian that somehow gave Alfred the feeling that he wasn’t all too pleased about having his personal address known, before switching back to English. “I repeat,” he sighed, as if something like this had happened far too many times before. “I do not receive fans at my home. You are free to try again when the season starts—“

“Wait!” Alfred interrupted him, sensing that Ivan was about to hang up on him. “I’m not just here because I’m a fan! In fact, there was something I wanted to discuss with you, as colleagues. And besides, you have to hear me out after I came all the way from San Francisco to—“

“You came all the way from America?!” Ivan sounded absolutely baffled for reasons unknown.

“I mean, yeah, where else did you think I came from?” Alfred asked patiently. He surely sounded American enough to let his accent alone be a hint, and he had just told the guy he skated _for_ America, then it was only logical that he came _from_ the same place.

Ivan was quiet for a certain amount of time, but right before Alfred could start thinking he had indeed be abandoned, a quiet voice once again poured through the intercom.

“If there was something you wanted to talk about, why not send me an email or call? Surely that would have been a lot cheaper…” He was mumbling, as if he was talking to himself instead of to Alfred.

The blond waited with baited breath, heart skipping a beat when at last, a buzzer sounded. Ivan had heard his plea, and had at least taken pity on him. He was in.

Alfred slung his bag onto his back and raced inside, forgoing the elevator in favour of climbing seven sets of stairs, releasing excess energy along the way. It was only after that little introduction that he had realised it would probably have been a better idea to study beforehand what he would tell Ivan, but it was too late for that now. Impulsive decision had brought him here, now he could only ride its coattails to victory.

When Alfred mounted the final set of stairs he slowed down, noticing light falling through an open door at the very end of the floor. Ivan must be as curious as _he_ was excited by now, wondering why oh why his visitor had paid such an expensive fee just to talk to him face-to-face. Alfred wasn’t going to leave him in suspense much longer.

Taking steady steps forward, Alfred reached the end of the hallway. At long last, he turned to face the one and only Ivan Braginsky, number one world champion at the moment, the name on everyone’s tongue. Alfred had seen him many times before, on television or through livestreams, his piercing eyes staring into the lens on front of some sports magazine, and a couple of times Alfred had had the honour to witness his spectacle in the flesh. But never before had he stood face to face with the man, close enough to touch.

His gaze was even more intense without the filter of a camera to soften its hue, his skin almost the exact same colour as the ice on which he performed his tricks and daring techniques. Instead of a fitting outfit he now wore thick sweaters and regular pants, silver skates replaced by some comfortably looking loafers. Ivan was like a god in disguise, both extraordinarily handsome and painfully ordinary. And Alfred was standing right in front of him.

Ivan’s gaze was scrutinising, but nevertheless, he gave a flick of the head. “Come inside. I shall make tea.” He seemed to have resigned himself to entertaining a guest for the time being. Despite his reputation of disliking the social part of stardom, he was still a considerate host.

Alfred happily followed the man into his apartment, skidding along like an excited young pup. His head snapped about in an attempt to take in all his surroundings—picture frames, cluttered hallway, almost too clean living room with a cosy couch and gigantic television screen. It looked like a fairly normal home.

Alfred was seated on a barstool in the kitchen, his bag deposited on the floor beside him. While Ivan made tea, he kept sending thoughtful gazes Alfred’s way. “Are you certain we have not met?”

Alfred shook his head, kept his tone airy. “Probably not. Like I said, I was still in Junior ‘til now, so…yeah.”

“Jones…” Ivan mumbled pensively. “Jones, Jones…” All of a sudden, his eyes widened. “I _have_ heard of you!”

Alfred sat up straighter at that exclamation. Ivan couldn’t mean—

“ _Da_ , I remember! You were the young skater who managed to mess up his first preliminaries so badly he got suspended for a whole year!”

Alfred’s hopeful expression instantly turned sour, eye twitching a little. “Oh,” he laughed, voice strained. “So uh, you heard about that, didn’t you?” He had hoped Ivan wouldn’t have known.

Ivan was nodding to himself, pouring hot water into two mugs. “I knew I recognised that name.” His eyes shot to the side, locking with Alfred’s. “And now I also remember you asking for my autograph after I won the Grand Prix this year, in Marseille.”

Alfred’s cheeks went from slightly tanned to a dark crimson. His first real meeting with the great Ivan Braginsky certainly wasn’t going as he’d expected (or hoped). Still, despite his current embarrassment, the boy couldn’t find it in him to be discouraged. After all, Ivan had paid enough attention to him to remember both his name and appearance. That _had_ to be worth something, at least.

As Ivan continued giggling to himself, verbally recollecting the article describing Alfred’s antics in his first year, his guest leant onto the counter he was seated at.

“Actually, that _does_ have something to do with why I’m here.” His heart was beating loudly against his ribs to the rhythm of a funky little tap-dance. There was no use in stalling; he would have to ask him sooner rather than later.

“And what is that something?” Ivan asked, handing Alfred his mug. His imploring gaze sent shivers down Alfred’s spine.

The boy closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Then he boldly made eye contact with the taller skater.

“Ivan Braginsky, I want you to help me make my debut at the Grand Prix. As…as my coach.”

Ivan had been stirring vast amounts of sugar into his tea, but now his movements slowed down, soon coming to a complete stop. He was looking at Alfred as if the boy had suddenly grown a second head. Which he might as well have, since he appeared to have lost the first one upon asking that ridiculous question.

“ _Chto_? You are joking, right?”

Alfred’s hand trembled. He quickly balled it into a fist to hide his jitters. “No, I’m not. I wouldn’t have come all the way to St. Petersburg if I were. I’m asking you in earnest to be my coach.”

Ivan carefully put down his mug, his expression having cooled down from amused to deadpan. “No.”

“I’m not asking you to put your own career on hold!” Alfred quickly interjected, hoping he could persuade the other by eliminating all reasons he could possibly have to oppose his request. “I just need a little bit of your time, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“You are speaking madness.”

“No, I mean it—my current coach is great, but he only wants to work on my strengths, and I want to become a thousand times better than that! I think only _you_ can help me with that.”

Ivan leant back, crossing his arms. “Explain.”

“Well, you’re like, super elegant right?” Alfred said bluntly. “I’m good with endurance and my jumps, but I usually lose points for presentation. If you could just give me a couple of tips to help me out?”

“I will do no such thing.”

Alfred was staring to get a little frustrated, his movements growing wilder and his voice getting louder. “Oh, come on! You can’t just close the door on me like that! You’ve never even seen me skate!”

“I do not need to see you skate. I can tell you have no potential.” It was below the belt, but by now Ivan just wanted to get rid of the kid. Who even did such a thing? Traveling halfway across the world on a fool’s whim. It was preposterous.

“What?!” Alfred now rose from his seat, nearly knocking over his untouched drink. “Who are you to—“

Ivan rose as well, and Alfred almost bit his tongue in his haste to stop talking. He was once more reminded of just how _tall_ the older skater was.

“I am the number one skater in the world. You can trust me when I make these judgements.”

Alfred’s mouth opened and closed, his ire still irked. Ivan _did_ have a point, albeit so cruelly made. However, Alfred was anything if not stubborn.

“Just one chance!” he spat out, trying to make himself look taller by puffing out his chest and planting his feet sturdily to the ground. “Just one, and if you still think I got no potential, I’ll just…I’ll go.” (His wallet cried a little.)

Ivan bent over, bringing their faces ever so close, Alfred once more forgetting how to breathe. “Just one,” he whispered. “Understood?”

Alfred could only nod.

The drive to Ivan’s favourite ice rink lasted another hour, which was mostly spent in awkward silence. Alfred was still too miffed to make for a good conversation partner, and Ivan himself didn’t ask too many questions. In the end, the Russian simply turned on the radio for both to listen too, which Alfred did, even though he couldn’t understand a single word of it.

The boy’s initial elation had already dried out, now making place for a gnawing feeling in the back of his head. He really didn’t have the money to make these kinds of expensive trips on a whim. But more importantly, his pride wouldn’t be able to take such a big, resounding “no”. If he had to go back home without any results, he wasn’t sure how easily he’d be able to pick himself back up again. Gilbert would be furious, he’d probably flunk his debut, and most importantly, he _really_ didn’t want Ivan Braginsky to think he was worth nothing. But no, he couldn’t think that way. He had to have confidence in his own prowess. He had to believe that he could achieve his goals if he just tried hard enough.

Ivan was greeted enthusiastically upon arrival at the Ice Palace, Alfred begrudgingly introduced to the staff present. Several heads turned Ivan’s way as they made their way through the building, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Alfred felt a little smaller in his presence, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was walking next to a superstar. The World Champion, his one true idol. The person he had thought to be of divine status for so many years. To whom he’d yelled, like a little child.

There wasn’t much time to be embarrassed or fretful, however, as Alfred was quickly made to change and then pushed onto the rink. They had fenced off a small area for him to demonstrate his expertise.

“Which song would you like?” Ivan asked over the sound of Alfred’s loudly beating heart, scrolling through his iPhone in what appeared to be boredom. Like he wanted to get this over with quickly, so that he could go back to his little apartment and his cosy couch and his huge TV as fast as possible.

Alfred once more found his bravado, peeved by Ivan’s disinterest. Here he was, pouring his heart out, only to get the cold shoulder?

“Let’s do ‘Party in the USA’.”

Ivan quirked an eyebrow, upon which Alfred planted his hands onto his hips. Ivan chuckled. “Whatever you wish, little American.”

“I _am_ nineteen, you know,” Alfred helpfully reminded him.

“And still you have yet to exit the Junior league,” Ivan mused, making Alfred flush once again.

 _Which is exactly why I came to you_ , he internally grumbled, but all too soon Ivan had found the right song and it was time to start.

Alfred placed his glasses aside before moving to the centre of his personal stage, striking a starting pose with both hands in the air. He then began a quirky little side-stepping sequence to the beat of the song, using as much flair as he thought possible. He tried not to think about Ivan, standing there at the edge of the rink, constantly watching him. If he’d think about _that_ , he’d surely mess up his routine.

Wanting to get what he thought was the “boring” part of the routine over quickly, Alfred was all too glad when he could finally show off his jumps. _This_ was what he was good at; big showy movements for which he had to use as many muscles as possible. He neatly performed a triple Flip, landing with a satisfying scrape of blades along his own reflection. He chanced a look over his shoulder, but it was hard to make out Ivan’s expression from this distance. _See?_ he wanted to yell at him. _I can at least do this much!_

After the jumps came an erratic spin, wild and spontaneous due to his energised nature, but even more so because of his impatience. He got ready for the next jump; a combination this time. He started out just fine with his triple Toe Loop, followed up with a single loop, but had to tick down when performing a Salchow.

 _Damn_! he chastised himself, focus disrupted by the minor flaw. He had to make this near perfect if he wanted to impress Ivan. And sure, he had come to him precisely _because_ he needed help in becoming a better skater, but it was no use working with flawed materials.

Alfred managed to cool his head a little while doing a combination spin, getting back to following the rhythm of the song down to the note. Still, he was more focused on the last jump he wanted to perform than on staying in-character, making him a little less playful than he had wanted to be.

At last, it was time. Alfred lined up, got into position, and lifted off. For a moment, it looked like he was flying. The quad Axel he had opted for looked absolutely perfect, right up until the landing. For one solid moment, Alfred was absolutely sure that he could do anything he set his mind to. Then his skates made contact with the ice, he lost his balance, and fell down. Despite immediately getting up again and moving over to get into his final position, Alfred’s heart had shattered the very second he could feel the frozen surface beneath his fingertips. It was over.

Alfred lifted his hands high above his head and folded them. He closed his eyes, panting after the effort he had put into those three minutes. He felt like crying, but didn’t. Instead, he let his hands fall down onto his forehead, and cursed himself under his breath. A wave of anger washed over him, then poured straight out of him again, exiting via the ice. He sullenly skated over to the entrance, still not looking up.

“I’ll go get my stuff,” he mumbled, head hanging low in humiliation. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“One week.”

Alfred blinked, then hesitantly looked up. Ivan was staring him down with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I give you _one_ week to come up with something better.” _I know you can do better than this_ , his eyes seemed to say. “Here—“ Alfred was handed a card and some cash. “Show this to the staff whenever you want to use the rink, and use the money to pay for a room. I do not have any room to let you stay in my apartment, and it would be bothersome to drive you to the rink every day.”

“I can’t take this,” Alfred said, furiously shaking his head. “You don’t have to help me out of pity.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “If you do not want me to pity you, then you had better have a performance ready by the end of the week, one that will make me want to take you as my student more than anything else.”

Alfred was confused. “Why are you doing this? I thought you hated me.”

“I hate everyone who just barges into my apartment unannounced and forces me to be my mentor,” Ivan pointed out, and Alfred really didn’t have any counterarguments for that. “You had better not waste this opportunity. Now go change.”

* * *

“What do I dooooooooooooooooo.”

It was the evening of that same day, and Alfred had withdrawn into the bar of the hotel at which Ivan had dropped him off. He could understand Ivan not wanting them to play roomies (despite the guy having a VERY COSY COUCH), him being as used to living by himself as he was. He still couldn’t quite understand the reason for Ivan’s change of heart though. Perhaps Ivan had seen something that Alfred didn’t even know he possessed? That didn’t help his current dilemma.

“What do I do, what do I do, what do I do…” How was he supposed to come with something genius enough to impress Ivan Braginsky of all people, and that in just a week time?! Ivan was expecting too much of him. Surely he must have mistaken him for someone of his own level.

“Anything I can help you out with?” a voice asked him.

Alfred chuckled dryly, slouched over the counter as he was, cradling a Pepsi on ice. “Probably not. It’s figure skating, you see.”

“Hmm, I think I know my way around the rink.”

Alfred looked up to acknowledge the other’s presence as he took a seat, then back down. Then immediately back up. His jaw dropped.

Sitting right next to him was none other than Viktor Nikiforov, former World Champion. He was here, in the flesh, for some reason appearing in the exact same hotel Alfred was currently staying at. He must be dreaming. Yeah, maybe that was it. Maybe Ivan hadn’t given him a second chance after all; maybe he’d hit his head on the ice and he was currently being transported to a nearby hospital. That must be it. For what were the odds of meeting your two greatest idols on the very same day?

_Ivan would be so jealous._

“You recognise me,” Viktor chuckled, quickly ordering himself a glass of Vodka. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

“You—here—how—“

“I just came back from the rink,” Viktor easily explained. “I am touring the city with my husband for our anniversary, you see. The Ice Palace was a must-go.”

An image of flamboyant Viktor going sightseeing with his slightly more integer lover flashed through Alfred’s mind, but there were more important matters to focus on.

“It’s just, wow! I’d never thought I would meet _you_ of all people! It’s an honour!” He quickly held out his hand for Viktor to shake, absolutely thrilled when the gesture was reciprocated. “I’m Alfred, by the way. And…”

“Nice to meet you, Alfred,” Viktor said pleasantly, in one fluid motion handing Alfred a piece of paper with his autograph on for Alfred to stare lovingly down at. “And now, there was something you could use some help with…?”

Alfred’s face fell, and he once more slumped over. The boy reluctantly conveyed his troubles. It was kind of a surreal experience, blowing off steam in the presence of a celebrity. Alfred told of his impulsive decision, made less impulsive when he related how the thought had been on his mind for quite some time now. He also explained how he had arrived in the city, accounted his first meeting with the one guy he had been dying to meet, and the events that followed.

“And now I’m screwed,” he laughed weakly, talking very easily. “I have no idea what to do. If my usual routines were good enough, I wouldn’t be needing Ivan’s help.”

Viktor was looking at him thoughtfully, a finger tapping his cheek. “This definitely brings me back,” he murmured, smiling about some memory Alfred could only guess at. “But I think I know something that might help you, Alfred.”

“You do?” Alfred leant in, eyes shimmering. “Please tell me!”

Viktor clasped his hands, suddenly beaming confidence. “All you have to do is surprise him!”

Alfred blinked, eyes shifting left and right. “Um, okay…and how do I do that?” There was no way _anyone_ could surprise Ivan, he was quite sure of it.

Viktor chuckled, took a sip, then snapped his fingers. “Well, you say your weakness lies in performance. You also say that Ivan’s strength lies in the very thing you are weak at. So, how do we bring those two together?”

Alfred was still looking uncertainly, but his expression cleared after Viktor had whispered the solution to all his problems into his ear. “And you really think that’ll work? That…I’ll be able to pull it off?”

“Alfred,” Viktor pressed, once more giving that knowing smile, as if he could look straight into Alfred’s soul. “ _Of course_ you can pull it off. Ivan wouldn’t have given you this second chance had there been any doubt of you being able to do this.”

Alfred stared at him for a moment, letting the words sink in. “I would kiss you right now if you weren’t married and all that.”

Viktor laughed, downing his drink before looking at his watch. “It’s my pleasure, Alfred. I have to go now, but I’ll take a hug if you don’t mind.” He reached out, pulling the boy into his arms. “And don’t worry, I know you can do it.”

Alfred was still filled with awe when Viktor let go, turning around to exit the bar. He stopped for a moment at the door, greeted by the man Alfred knew to be his husband—they had apparently been enjoying the good life ever since retirement, as Yuri looked a lot rounder than he ever had in any of his costumes and happier than a clam who’d just produced the most perfect pearl.

Alfred threw back his own Pepsi, stopping for a moment when this gave him brain freeze. Viktor had given him a plan of attack. Time to get to work.

* * *

Alfred could more often than not be found on the ice that week, as focused as a hound hot on the tail of its prey. Every free moment was spent fretting over the demonstration he would have to give by the end of the week, the mere thought of it slipping into his dreams. He was a possessed man that week, ignoring the calls he got from home, not able to answer their questions until he himself was certain of his future.

It was on one of these nights that Ivan dropped by to check in on him. Alfred had gained permission to stay after-hours, now having the entire field for his own use. He had been working on an intense warm-up when he suddenly became aware of the sound of skates on solid ground. He immediately ceased his movements and spun around to face the other, relieved he hadn’t been in the middle of his routine. Ivan couldn’t know about what he was working on, not yet.

Ivan nodded to him in greeting. “I see you are making good use of your time.” He put his bag to the side and entered the rink, lightly shaking his arms  to work out any possible stiffness. “You do not mind me making a couple of laps? I really do prefer this rink over any other.”

Alfred’s heart gave a lurch; was he really about to witness Ivan practicing one of his routines? He was almost one-hundred percent sure that no one before him had done the same, except for Ivan’s coach of course.

“Go ahead!” Alfred squawked, and he found himself noiselessly moving around as Ivan set to circling the field, unable to tear his eyes away from the Russian’s every movement.

As soon as Ivan’s muscles had warmed up enough to the near autotomised flexing, he began performing some basic jumps. Only, when it was Ivan doing them, they didn’t look basic at all. Even when flying through the air, he seemed in full control of every little flick of the wrist, every twitch of ankle, down to the tips of his toes sliding back onto the ice. Ivan was strong as a bear, yet swanlike all the same. It was simply enchanting to witness.

Alfred’s breath caught when Ivan looked him dead in the eye mid-spin, one eyebrow cocked, as if to ask him why he was gaping instead of working. The little gesture jolted Alfred back into action, and his spirit suddenly rose to meet Ivan’s own bravado. The boy suddenly found himself very eager to see just how long he would be able to keep up.

As Ivan continued his jumps and spins, Alfred set to circling him, looking for an opening, as if they were performing an intricate dance despite the distance between their bodies. Alfred waited his turn for Ivan to finish a quad before hurrying in, flying past the man with a strong triple Salchow of his own. Still, even as the jump had been acted out quite flawlessly, all he heard from Ivan was the same small giggles he’d been treated to earlier that week.

“You are so impatient, _malchik_.” His lips had curled up into an amused little smile, his eyes were hooded, knowing. That expression pissed Alfred off like nothing else could.

“I’ll give you impatient,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, after which he boldly skated right past Ivan, forcing the other to move out of the way and give him room. Ivan did as requested, even though the little smirk didn’t leave his features, and he crossed his arms in mock expectation.

The smirk faltered a little when Alfred launched himself into one of his most successful quad Flips yet. The movements were acted out with so much fierce determination his body seemed to be giving off strong waves of heat to melt the ice beneath him; the rippling of muscles was only accentuated by the sound of his skates leaving and once more joining the ice. Still, the crease in his brow wasn’t caused by the strain this jump put on his body, but was one of pure concentration. It was the look of a man able to do anything he wanted through pure willpower.

Ivan was impressed, and if not that, he was at least pleasantly surprised. Alfred went back to circling a smaller area, chest proudly puffed out as he daringly stared him in the eye, almost challenging. And Ivan, who was usually unperturbed by others’ performances, rose to meet the challenge.

Alfred’s skating slowed down to a gentle shuffling when Ivan got to moving again, skating in a wide elliptic shape before moving to the centre of the rink, dipping down to his knees as he did so, expression calm throughout the entire thing. In a flash he turned, and now seemed to be coming straight for Alfred.

Alfred’s eyes widened, Ivan’s jump reflected in his dark pupils, laser-focused. Ivan’s jump was strong, even though it didn’t match the raw strength Alfred had demonstrated. The technical side was just right; exact amount of rotations, feet held in the right positions, no tapping down or spinning out of balance involved. And yet there was something more, something a little bit extra that Alfred could only dream of portraying in his own routine.

Had Alfred resembled a powerful beast with his jump, Ivan looked like an angel. He was that good. Arms stretched out, expression calm and almost soothing, his hair whipping about the frame of his face like snow on a cold winter night. His fingers fluttered in an almost fragile gesture, oh so delicate, and after he hit the ice his eyes remained closed for another few moments, hands folded together, as if he were lost in prayer. It was so beautiful it made Alfred’s heart swell.

And when Ivan did finally open his eyes, those lucid pools of violet were fixated on Alfred’s trembling form, and he could feel a warm squirming in his stomach. _Ivan did that for me_ , it seemed to tell him, but Alfred could only really think of one thing. It was going to be ever so hard to impress this divine creature.

Still, he was going to try all his might to succeed in the impossible.

* * *

It was one week later. Alfred had been working harder than he ever had, only returning to his hotel room to sleep or work out more of his routine. Every single day he had gone to the Ice Palace for practice, to the point where most of the staff knew him by name and he no longer needed Ivan’s card to get in. And now came the moment to see if his hard work had paid off.

Alfred was sitting in the dressing room when Ivan entered. He shuddered a little when the other looked him over, still nervous despite all his efforts.

“I trust you have been doing well?” Ivan asked, obviously not that comfortable with idle chatter.

Alfred swallowed, then nodded. He quickly rose. “Let’s just…get out there. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Ivan smiled at this. “Still impatient, are we?”

Alfred sent him a glare, but Ivan’s laughter showed that he had only been teasing. It would take some getting used to his mannerisms.

Alfred moved over to the rink on wobbly legs, heart pounding. He remembered Viktor’s words of encouragement, clinging to them as if they were his last hope. He may act confident, but when it came down to it he really wasn’t all that sure of himself. Still, he had to trust in Viktor, and above all, in Ivan’s judgement. Thus, ignoring his own insecurities, he stepped on, and began.

Ivan pushed play, then leant over the side of the rink. His flat expression didn’t give his thoughts away, of which there were many.

At first, Ivan wasn’t all that impressed. Alfred’s new routine started with the same kind of wild and erratic movements he was known for; daring, but not golden medal-material. Ivan was actually getting a little annoyed—had Alfred really not learnt anything in the week he had been granted? Had Ivan’s moment of inspiration been false after all?

He had seen it all before. The rashness, the misplaced pride, the restlessness. It was good, but not good enough. Far from good enough, if Alfred ever hoped to surpass him one day.

_Did he?_

After the first jump, however, something changed. While Alfred had dedicated the first third of his routine to spins and the technical aspects of their art, it seemed that he had reserved the next part for something else. Something else entirely.

As the music became a little softer—a song playing that Ivan did not recognise— so did Alfred’s movements. In about the blink of an eye, Alfred’s entire demeanour changed from bold and show-offish to almost tender. It was as if he had suddenly become a different person altogether, as if he was only now trying to convey a story through his skating. And then it hit him, like a sudden lightning bolt travelling all the way down his spine.

Alfred was using Ivan’s own movements.

He recognised them for they were his own heart and soul; the delicate swaying of hands, the craned back with arms spread wide like a swan taking flight, the delicate dip, knees almost sliding along the ice. As realisation hit him, Ivan also knew the story behind the dance. It was a tale of wanting to get better, wanting to achieve greatness more anything, and above all else, it was a story about love.

Ivan was covering his mouth with both hands. He doubted Alfred knew the true extent of the movements he had copied. But Ivan _did_ know that he had been studied far more intensely than Alfred had been letting on. This wasn’t just a show of skill.

It was a confession.

Whether Alfred  realised it or not, Ivan only saw it all the more with every passing second. In a flash he was a little boy again, desperately copying another’s movements in hopes of impressing his crush. Alfred was doing exactly the same, only instead of choosing an outsider’s motions, he had chosen Ivan’s.

Ivan couldn’t have missed the rest of the routine had he wanted to, eyes glued to that determined boy dancing his heart out. He witnessed the flying spin, the triple Lutz, the slightly over-rotated quad Axel. He almost lived the frustration pouring from Alfred’s every fibre, but he couldn’t find it in him to lower his expectations. He knew Alfred could do it. He had already achieved greatness.

Alfred finished with an ending pose he’d never even think of trying himself before last week, bent backwards and letting his muscles relax. He was panting heavily, mildly frustrated. He had no idea how good that went. Surely the jumps had gone well for the most part, but what about the thing that really mattered? Once again he didn’t dare to look Ivan in the eye, albeit for different reasons than last time. Ivan had to have recognised the routine. How could he not have?

Finally, when he had stood there for so long it was starting to get a little awkward, Alfred saw no other option than to move over. He breathed in deeply before lowering both his arms and his gaze, heart beating more fervently than it ever had. Ivan had placed one hand to his face, eyes closed. Was that a bad sign? It almost had to be, right?

Alfred hesitantly moved over, gulping, a weird rushing noise audible in his ears. “So…” he spoke, voice tight with nervousness. “How did I do? You think there’s a chance for me?” He was almost afraid to hear the answer. Almost.

Ivan breathed in deeply before letting out a long sigh. He partially removed the hand to peer at Alfred, eyes darkened considerably. Alfred found himself caught by that almost gently gaze like a deer in the headlights.

“You can stay,” Ivan finally grumbled, seemingly reluctantly.

It took Alfred almost a full minute to process those words. “Really?” he asked, a bit uncertainly. But when Ivan gave a brisk nod, he couldn’t keep it in.

“Ya-HOO!” Alfred jumped up high, fist-bumping the air. He almost fell over when touching the ice, just nearly catching himself. “Oh yeah, I fucking did it! Who’s the best?”

While Alfred continued cheering and crying out in elevation, Ivan secretly smiled. Letting Alfred stay was sure to bring a whole lot of trouble with it. But perhaps a little trouble was just what he needed.

Because maybe, just maybe, he had finally found someone who could thaw his frozen heart.


End file.
